Tea For Two, Part III: Future Cares
by Haydee
Summary: Timothy finds a way to guide his future self towards love...


Technically, this is the third installation of the Tea For Two "series" or whatever you want to call it, but in reality the events in this story take place both before and after events in part II. As in the previous installation, I switch time periods about midway through the story. This might be a little confusing, but if you remember the general events from part I you shouldn't have any problem following this tale; I made it as a stand-alone narrative, even though at this point I don't believe anything in this story contridicts anything else I've written. So, if you want to know the bare bones of what's going on here, this is the run down:  
--Robin and Impulse are visited by themselves from a future time, bringing the news that Robin will be blinded as a result of saving Batman's life and Impulse will come down with athsma as he ages.   
--In the future, Robin leaves for a time after these events actually transpire. When he returns, he discovers that at the same time he had been blinded, Batman had lost both his legs (and hidden the fact from him).   
--In spite of his handicap, Robin becomes Batman.  
  
  
  
Tea For Two, Part III: Future Cares  
  
Haydee  
  
  
Robin sat drumming his fingers upon the table in the kitchen. Thinking. Every few minutes he glanced behind himself, to that shadow in the corner. Just to make sure. It made him antsy, that shadow being there. Uncomfortable. Maybe that's why he was sitting here.  
  
Robin made a noise of disgust, irritated with himself, and stood up suddenly, knocking the chair back a bit. He had made up his mind, and strode into the prep room next door, where Superboy was lifting two sets of five hundred pound weights with ease. He stopped as Robin came in, and sat up. There was a floor lamp sitting just inside the door. Robin took it.  
  
"Hey--!" objected Superboy, more irritated at the fact that Robin had ignored him than that there was now twenty percent less light in the room. He waited a minute, but Robin didn't come back, and he didn't feel like getting up to go voice a complaint, so he shrugged and went back to the weights.  
  
In the other room, Robin carried the lamp to the shadowy corner. He set it down and plugged it in and stood back to look at it, his hands on his hips. "There," he muttered to himself. "Satisfied?"  
  
"Well, I don't know, could you move it a little to the right?"  
  
Robin spun, his heart rate stepping up about five hundred beats a second. "Secret," he breathed, relieved to see her floating behind him, and not-- someone else.  
  
"You seem a little jumpy today, Robin," she commented in her breathy, ghost-like voice. Actually it wasn't really ghost-*like,* it was ghost-*ly.*   
  
He rubbed his face and went back to the table. "Sorry," he apologized, sitting down. "I guess I'm just a little uptight after that 'visitation' or whatever you wanna call it."  
  
Secret's gaseous form curled around the chair opposite him from both sides, and she coalesced before him. Her hand solidified for a moment, and she reached across the table to brush his arm. "I guess it would be a little shocking," she said, "to see yourself ten years from now. Me, I guess I've gotten used to the idea that I'll be essentially the same... but I can understand what you're feeling." She paused. "Do you want to talk about it?"  
  
"I--" Robin opened his mouth, then closed it again. "I'm sorry, Secret-- I'd tell you first if I told anyone, you know that-- but I'd rather just kind of-- forget about it for now."  
  
Her form snaked into the chair next to him. "Was it-- really that bad?"  
  
Robin put his elbows on the table and his face in his hands. "Yes," he whispered, after a moment. "Yeah, it was bad."  
  
He felt her cool, ethereal hand tickle gently across his back. "I'm sorry, Robin. If there's anything I can do..."  
  
"Thanks, Secret." Robin looked up just in time to see a blur of light, and another burnt trail etched its way across the wood flooring. A residual "HeyRob!" lingered for a moment in the air. "Sometimes I wish I could be like him," he sighed, looking after Impulse. "Two minutes later and he completely forgot about the whole thing. All it took was chocolate chip cookies to cheer him up, and he was fine."  
  
Secret smiled gently. "I would not be-- *too* hasty in supposing that he's unaffected. Yesterday when he was supposed to be taking a nap, I heard him crying..."  
  
Robin winced. "Poor Bart. I know-- he feels it, but he doesn't-- *think* about them. All the time. Every time he closes his eyes he doesn't *see--*" Robin stopped.  
  
"See what?"  
  
He closed his eyes. "Nothing."  
  
Secret floated gently upwards. "All right," she said, gently. "Just remember, Robin... I'm here." There was a gentle wisp of breeze, and she was gone.  
  
Robin looked after her. "I wish," he whispered to himself, "I could just forget..."  
  
Then his gaze widened, and he stood up.   
  
***  
  
Robin did not tell Batman about his encounter. He did, however, under a promise of secrecy punishable by death, confide in Alfred. Sometimes the old guy was his last and best resort. Anyway, things always seemed to come out more easily when he talked to the kind old butler. When he had finished with the story, he sat hunched over his coke, sitting on the tall stool in the kitchen at Wayne Manor, waiting.  
  
Alfred, at the stove, carefully set down his spoon and turned, leaning slightly against the counter. "Well," he said. "Well indeed, Master Tim. Are you-- quite certain you won't consider telling Master Bruce?"  
  
Timothy slid his coke forward on the table. "I *can't,* Alfred! Do you have any idea what he'd do? He'd probably totally freak, and then throw me out of the house, ban me from being Robin forever! Either that, or he'd get all obsessive over anticipating what was gonna happen, and then we'd all be living with Mr. Sunshine for the next eight years."  
  
"Then-- you have no plans to... renounce your role in vigilantism?"  
  
"If you mean am I going to stop being Robin--" he paused. "Well, uh, no."  
  
"Forgive me, sir, if I point out that you don't sound entirely certain."  
  
He shook his head. "No. I am. I mean, that's what this whole thing is about, right? Sacrificing yourself for the good of Gotham, to protect them. Who says I get to choose how much I have to sacrifice? Is there a limit to the amount you should pay for someone else's life? I mean, you can't draw lines, right? This was an all-or-nothing job when I took it, and-- and--" he choked slightly. "And I'm not gonna give it up now just because I know what's gonna happen."  
  
Alfred turned discreetly back to his cooking, allowing Timothy a little time to gather himself without the scrutiny of an old man's prying eyes. "Pardon again, young sir-- but those sound as though they aren't entirely... ah, your own words."  
  
Timothy lashed out in reply, but not severely enough that Alfred thought the boy's frustration was directed at him personally. "So what if they're Bruce's?" he challenged. "I'm supposed to be learning from him, aren't I? I'm going to-- to-- *become* him, aren't I?"  
  
"There are some things," Alfred said quietly, "I wish it were possible for you to *neglect* learning from the master."  
  
He was silent for a moment. "Well, anyway," he said finally, "it's gonna happen no matter what I do, right? So I might as well just keep on doing what I wanna do." He paused again, and when he finally spoke his voice was small. "What would you do, if you were me, and-- uh, you weren't going to stop being Robin?"  
  
"I believe, Master Timothy, I should go to the door, open it, and start running in the other direction until I found myself in China."  
  
Timothy looked up at the old man, sucking viciously at the last drops of his coke before getting up. "Thanks, Alfred, that was *so* helpful."  
  
"Young sir, please--"  
  
But he was gone.  
  
***  
  
"Is there something bothering you?"  
  
Robin looked up. "I'm fine," he said.  
  
"You seem distracted."  
  
"Sorry. I'll work harder."  
  
Batman paused. "Robin--"  
  
"What?"  
  
He was silent. "I--"  
  
"Batman, you know when Hugo Strange was after you, and you hypnotized yourself into forgetting you were Batman?"  
  
"Yes," the Dark Knight rumbled, looking at his sidekick out of the corner of one eye.  
  
"Could you teach me how to do that?"  
  
Batman turned, eying him strangely.   
  
Robin tried to shrug, nonchalantly. "I just thought it would be something handy to know, in the future. I dunno." He looked at his shoes. "That's okay, you don't have to show me--"  
  
"I will." Batman checked his chronometer. "It's time to get back anyway."  
  
***  
  
Bruce Wayne stood watching that morning as Timothy jogged up the stairs and disappeared into the main body of Wayne Manor.  
  
"Tea, sir?"  
  
He blinked and turned around. "Hm? Oh-- thank you, Alfred." He turned back to stare at the now abandoned stairway. "He was distracted tonight," he rumbled, almost to himself. He turned and went to the Batcomputer. "Sometimes I wonder... if he has the dedication for this kind of work."  
  
Alfred cleared his throat lightly. "If I may, sir..." he waited for the slight nod. "That young man lacks nothing, sir, in dedication."  
  
Bruce seemed to digest this. "Hm," he grunted, finally, and sipped his tea.  
  
***  
  
Secret found Robin sitting alone in the back room, dangling a watch and chain in front of his own face. "Robin, what are you doing?" she asked, puzzled.   
  
Robin held out his other hand and let the watch drop into it. He looked up at the hovering form before him. "Batman taught me how to hypnotize myself," he said. "I'm going to make myself forget the whole thing."  
  
Secret's form drifted lower, so that they were eye to eye. "Are you sure that's such a good idea?" she asked.   
  
He flipped open the face of the watch and studied it for a moment. "No," he admitted finally. "I know what *he'd* say-- that we have to take our experiences, learn from them. Not try to forget it." He looked up. "But I *can't,* Secret. I mean, I guess I can, but for all it will teach me, I'm going to be that much more obsessive, anal, and irritable. I know I will."  
  
She hesitated for a moment, then spoke softly. "Maybe you should talk about it, Rob."  
  
"I--"  
  
"Talkaboutwhat,Rob? What'sthewatchfor? Heyhowcomeyou'resittinginhere? Konsaidyou'repoutingisthattrue?"  
  
"Bart!"  
  
Impulse snapped to attention.  
  
"Give it a rest for a while, will you?" Robin gritted his teeth.  
  
Bart sat down next to his friend on the floor. "OkayRob," he said. He looked at him, eyes big.   
  
Robin glanced up, and found that Secret had disappeared. He looked at Bart, irritated.  
  
Bart's eyes got bigger and wetter.   
  
Robin sighed. He hated it when Bart used that face on him.   
  
"Heyit'sokay, Rob," Impulse said. "It'llbe okay."  
  
"Maybe for you," he sighed.  
  
Bart looked at him again. Robin looked like he might be about ready to cry. Last time Impulse had felt that lousy, Rob had given him a hug. Impulse had felt much better after that. So he spread his arms and gave Robin a *big* hug.  
  
Robin set his jaw and rolled his eyes to the ceiling, enduring it while it lasted. Although he had to admit it was kind of sweet. In an annoying, Impulse-ish kind of way.  
  
Bart sat back. "Feelbetter?" he asked, brightly. *Uh-oh,* he thought. Robin did not look like he felt better. "Rob?" he asked, in a very small voice. His lip began to quiver.  
  
"It's not your fault, Bart," he said, trying to be nice. He certainly didn't want to make Impulse burst into tears; as it was it practically broke his heart to see that face again. "But sometimes some stuff is just bigger than what a hug can fix."  
  
Impulse bit his lip. And for three seconds, he thought very hard about cheering up his friend. Then, *zwipp!* he was gone.  
  
Robin put his chin in his hands and sighed.  
  
But he was not absent for long. "HereRobImadethisforyou!" he exclaimed, proudly holding out a very crayoned piece of paper stretched between both hands.  
  
"Uh, thanks," said Robin, trying to be enthusiastic. He accepted the drawing, which was still warm, and squinted at it. And squinted some more. "Er-- what is it?" he asked, trying to say it in a way that would not hurt Bart's feelings, as he stood there waiting expectantly.  
  
"It'syou! Andyourdad!" the young hero exclaimed brightly, pointing out what Robin saw now was supposed to be himself in his suit and Batman. Impulse clapped a hand over his mouth. "Imean-- Imean-- notyourdad,your,uh,uncleorcousinorsomethingor--uhhhhhh..."  
  
Robin winced. "It's okay, Bart," he said. "But for the last time, we're not related. At all." He squinted at the picture uneasily. "What are we *doing?*" he asked, finally, almost afraid to ask.  
  
Impulse bent over Robin's shoulder to look at his own picture. "You'rehugging!" he announced. "And,um,wavingtoo. Yeah. Waving." He zwipped in front of Robin. "SodidIcheeryouup?" he asked. "Huh?"  
  
"Bart..." he started to explain, then stopped. Slowly, his right eyebrow slid up.   
  
"Rob?"  
  
Robin stood, and thumped Impulse heartily on the back. "Yeah!" he said, "you cheered me up big time! Thanks, buddy. I'll be back in a little while."  
  
As Robin trotted out of the room, Impulse turned to look after him, a slow, *big* grin spreading across his face. A minute after his partner was gone, he shoved his hands into his pockets and sauntered after him, whistling. He found Superboy at the kitchen table, snacking. He zipped into the chair across from him and looked up at the clone, grinning.  
  
Superboy stopped, his triple-decked sandwich in both hands and dripping all sorts of condiments. "What?" he asked.  
  
Impulse grinned.  
  
"*What?!*"  
  
***  
  
Tim locked himself in his room. "Dad," he'd said beforehand, "could I just have a few hours to myself?"  
  
Jack Drake had ruffled his son's hair. "Sure, squirt. Behind on homework again?"  
  
He smiled faintly. "Something like that. Don't wait for dinner for me."  
  
"I'll put something on a plate for you to warm up later."  
  
Timothy smiled, remembering. His dad was the best. But it wasn't homework that he had in mind. Tonight, he sat down at his desk, pulled out a piece of paper and a pen, and started to write.  
  
Dear Tim--  
  
He scrawled it out.  
  
Dear Timothy,  
  
He threw the piece of paper away and got out a clean sheet. This was weird.  
  
Dear Mr. Drake, he wrote finally. This is weird.  
  
Two hours later he unlocked his door again, slipping on his jacket. His dad looked up when he came through the living room. "Dinner's in the fridge," he said.  
  
"Thanks, dad, but I just remembered I need to run something over to Bruce's house. I'll be back in like fifteen minutes, okay?"  
  
"Sure, son. Just watch yourself in the dark."  
  
Timothy listened to his feet crunch in the snow all the way to Wayne Manor. Alfred, of course, answered the door. He would usually have just let himself in, but it was Alfred he wanted, and Bruce never, *never* answered the door. Alfred would probably shoot him if he did.  
  
"Good evening, young sir," Alfred greeted mildly. "Can I do something for you?"  
  
"Yeah, Alfred. You can." He put his hand inside his jacket, and withdrew an sealed envelope. "Is there somewhere-- like a safe or something-- that you could put this? Like, with a combination that you could tell me, so I could open it again if I wanted. No, wait. Actually not a safe. Like-- I know!"  
  
"Sir?" Alfred frowned slightly, but shrugged and followed when Timothy rushed past him.   
  
The boy raced to the hall of relics. It was where Bruce kept all his prize artifacts, along the main hall of the house. The statues, the priceless paintings, --the vases. "Here," he said, stopping in front of one. It was enormous, balanced impossibly on a tiny square of a stand that could not have been more than six inches square; a white china pot covered in baby blue scroll work-- frankly, it just *screamed* "money!"  
  
Timothy stood on his tiptoes. He held the letter by one corner with the tips of his fingers and stretched upwards. But he still couldn't reach the lip.  
  
"Sir, if I might--"  
  
He turned. "Could you put this in, Alfred? Can you reach?" He eyed the older man, and judged that he was about the same height as his future self.  
  
"If I may, sir." Lightly, he plucked the envelope from Timothy's fingers and reached upwards. Then he paused. "Sir, it has just occurred to me that the composition of this vase might in some way be harmed if used as a storage--"  
  
"Just put it in!"  
  
Alfred dropped the letter.  
  
Timothy breathed a little easier. Half of it over with. "Thanks, Alfred."  
  
***  
  
Secret sighed when she found Robin with the watch again. "So," she breathed, "you've decided to do it."  
  
"Actually, no," he replied, halting the pendulum's swing in midair. "I haven't. But I am going to do what I can to help myself out."  
  
"Oh?"  
  
"I wrote a letter to myself. A letter which my future self did not seem to recall when I talked to him. Therefore he did not remember having written it. But I *did* write it. So now I'm going to forget it so that when he comes back he will remember."  
  
Secret's cloud dissipated slightly. "My head is spinning," she said. "What was that?"  
  
"All I have to do," he explained, "is hypnotize myself to forget ever writing the letter. But I'll trigger the memory with the completion of my visit back in time-- so when my future self returns, he'll remember having written it, and where he-- I-- put it, but not the contents of the letter."  
  
"Incredible. Can you really do that?"  
  
"I think so. Wanna help?"  
  
Secret smiled. "I've been waiting for just this opportunity."  
  
***  
  
TEN YEARS LATER  
  
  
"Hey, we got'em!"  
  
Bart Allen circles the residual ring of fire slowly, examining it with careful eyes. "For the time being, anyway," he concurs.  
  
Superboy rolls his eyes. "You are *such* a wet blanket sometimes."  
  
"I didn't just spend two hours at the beach."  
  
Superboy chuckles softly, grinning. "Yeah," he says wistfully. "You didn't. Shoulda come. It was great."  
  
Allen cocks an eyebrow at the eternal sixteen year old. Sometimes he wonders if the boy has aged at all. "Believe me," he says, "I wish I could have."  
  
"Well," he amends, looking slightly apologetic for his ribbing, "I guess that's how it goes sometimes. Next time, eh Allen?"  
  
The older man appears momentarily nostalgic. The time in his life when he could zip to the beach in moments is never so far from his memory as Superboy seems to believe. "Yeah-- next time, Kon," he says quietly.  
  
"It's been a long night," a voice speaks from the shadows. "Let's go home."  
  
"In case you haven't noticed, we *are* home," Superboy informs him.  
  
"Your home," Allen corrects, feeling, for his friend's sake, that he must speak the things he will not. "Not ours." In one fluid movement he strips off his heavy trench coat and strides into the next room to hang it up. His suit, no longer the bright red and white of his childhood, shimmers softly in the light, red and black, now. More somber tones for a more subdued nature. He is still called Impulse, but for rather... different reasons. As he steps into the decloaking area, he is vaguely aware that Batman follows him. "Want me to turn the lights out, Tim?" he offers. His voice is quiet; he knows his own visit was difficult, but he cannot imagine what it must have been like for his best friend.  
  
"No. I'm fine." But the tone of his voice suggests that, no, all is not 'fine.'  
  
"Well, let me know." Allen disrobes to the waist, then sits down on the bench in the lockerroom-like area to pull his skin-tight costume off from the ankles. Behind him, he hears soft shuffling noises, a fumbling hand, and then the click of a glass locker door. He knows without looking that his friend is exchanging the mantle-- eyes closed as he pulls it off, folds it up, stores it away-- for a pair of streamlined black glasses, with a seal around the edges to keep the light out. But tonight, there is a pause in the sequence. He does not close the locker door after putting the mask on the correct shelf. "Tim?" Allen asks after a moment, twisting around to see. He's just standing there, eyes closed, hands gripping the door of the locker, glasses still inside. "Tim-- buddy, you okay?"  
  
The glasses slip on quickly, and Timothy shakes his head a little, shadows playing about the unnatural distortions in his face. Allen has grown used to them, by now; it is nothing grotesque, only-- Tim. But he senses Allen's eyes upon him, and turns away. "I'm fine," he says. "Just-- I just remembered something." The locker door slams. "Tell your family 'hello.'"   
  
When Allen turns around again, Batman is gone.  
  
***  
  
Drake feels his way easily through the rest of their headquarters, stopping briefly to grope for the release catch on the door leading outside. But this time he pauses, his hand upon the knob, sensing a presence. His heart, in his chest, aches as it always does, when he feels her-- but the bond between them is too strong, too solid, even after all this time, all these events, to be broken. "Good night, Suzie" he says, softly, gently.  
  
A cool, smoky hand brushes across his face. The nerves are numbed there, but he feels it, and closes his eyes beneath the glasses, breathing carefully. "Good night, Timothy," comes the whisper in return.  
  
In spite of the words they have quietly traded, when Drake steps outside, the sun is just beginning to rise on the eastern horizon-- through the trees, if he could have seen them. But all that comes into his vision is a blur of bright light, and then, at the edges, darkness. He pulls out his stick, unfolds it, and taps his way hesitantly to the curb. He knows enough not to try it without guidance-- this from experience. He stands on the edge of the curb. Waiting.  
  
A few moments later there is a soft *whoosh* as his car slides to a stop in front of him. He feels for the door, steps off the curb, and ducks in. The stick shifts to drive, the gas feeds into the combustion engine, and they are off. Drake is only mildly surprised to find that the movements of his driver are more purposeful than usual; brutish, even. "Where's Alfred?" he asks casually.  
  
Bruce grunts as he rounds a corner at ninety per. "Sleeping. Needed the rest."  
  
Drake begins to fold his stick methodically. It is thin, white, the collapsible kind. "You ever have an experience where you find yourself talking to yourself at a younger point in time?" he asks, seemingly at random.  
  
His mentor pauses, uncertain if this refers to an actual situation or a period of remembrance. Either way, it doesn't make much difference. "Not that I recall."  
  
"Even when you remember it from the other end-- it's hard to know what to say." He turns his face towards the window and cradles his chin in one hand. He is tired. "I think I need some sleep."  
  
"Well, you'll get four hours before we're due at the office."  
  
"Mm. Great."  
  
Bruce glances at him, frowning slightly. "Are you all right?"  
  
Drake considers for a moment. "Yeah," he says finally, "I think I'll be okay." He sits back, crossing his legs in the ample room allowed in the spacey vehicle, and lets his head find a place on the rest behind it. His eyes, though already blinded in the daylight, find comfort in sliding closed, although the sensation is, as ever, somewhat unpleasant as his lids grate upon the cool mechanical orbs. He thinks he will sleep on the drive back, and this is also what Bruce believes him to be doing, but he does not in fact slide into unconscious oblivion. His thoughts drift, a kind of pain in his heart, and he sees himself youthful again, more clearly today than he has in years, because of the Visit.   
  
But when he thinks of his own youth, it is not the typical things he remembers... not cars, not events, not adventures. No, when he thinks of himself as a boy, he remembers, most of all, loving Suzie. Sweet, gentle, ethereal child, yet with a will of iron, a flash of anger now and then that thrilled and terrified him, at times. He thinks of other times, those scant peaceful hours, when friendship blossomed into love. Holding hands, kissing, her cool, insubstantial lips brushing featherlike upon his face-- ah, boyish affection, devotion, small poems and letters and secretly traded looks...  
  
And then adulthood, creeping slowly upon him, inevitably, driving itself between them, splitting them, heartbreakingly, apart. For Suzie was a forever child, one who could not grow old, trapped and frozen in the mists of time. And Tim, Robin then, was-- only human.   
  
They had known, both of them, that it could not last... yet still, it had broken her heart, as Wendy had broken Peter's so long ago, when he had finally told her-- 'I will grow old.' He had left her then, for a long while. But always the sound of her quiet sobs, the weeping of a brokenhearted child, would echo in his heart.  
  
They were friends now, because they could not help but be otherwise, but to Drake she had become what she had always been: the fragile, insubstantial memory of a thing which once, so very long ago, had been.  
  
***  
  
At Wayne Manor, he opens the car door and steps out, but waits patiently until Bruce, along with a few stifled grunts, comes around to take his elbow. 'Cripple leading a blind man,' he had observed once, wryly, as Bruce limped to the house, leaning heavily on his gnarled wooden cane. "Steps," rumbles Bruce this morning, but Drake knows where they are. He breaks the old man's hold and jogs quickly to the top, where he holds open the door for his mentor. "Had breakfast yet?" he asks.  
  
"--No," Bruce admits, after a moment.  
  
Drake sighs and shakes his head. Self sufficient in everything, that is ever Bruce-- except that he couldn't make a ham sandwich for himself if his life depended upon it. He supposes it is to be expected; having a servant all your life *will* tend to do that to a person. "I'll make us something," he says amiably. He feels like being with someone; Bruce. "What do you feel like?"  
  
"I'll find something. Get some sleep."  
  
Drake turns, his eyebrow raising slightly. "Dad," he says flatly, "I don't want Alfred to wake up and find the house burning down around him. Eggs and toast-- that all right?" He almost thinks he hears Bruce mumble something under his breath. "Dad?"  
  
"It's fine," he grunts.  
  
It is always easy in the kitchen. No matter what, Alfred keeps everything exactly the same. Always. Period. It doesn't matter what time of day it is, day *or* night, what day of the week or month or year-- Drake can go into the kitchen and be sure of the fact that when he puts his hand out, the eight-inch pan is going to be hanging *right there* on the wall, and nowhere else. He likes that. It takes him five minutes to whip out scrambled eggs with bell peppers and sliced mushrooms, just the way he knows Bruce likes it. It gives him a satisfaction that he can do something like this, something so basely functional.   
  
"What about you?" Bruce asks, when he sets the plate down in front of the old man.  
  
Drake pauses. Then he remembers, again. "I've got something to do, and then I'm gonna sleep. I'll have a big lunch at G-G's."  
  
Bruce grunts and starts to eat.  
  
***  
  
Drake hasn't been in the hall of relics for a while. Or, rather, he has been here, but it has been some time since he's felt or seen the various items along the run, and he isn't exactly sure anymore what order they are in. So, carefully, he lets his hand drift from pedestal to pedestal. Statue, statue, shield and spear, tapestry, vase-- no, not the right one-- wood carving, vase-- yes, this one. He feels upwards along the smooth curve, delicate and sensuous like a woman's body. At the lip he puts his hand over, and curses softly.  
  
"Stupid kid," he mutters. Of course, at age what, fifteen? --Alfred had been able to drop it in, at his height, but how did he ever expect to get it out, once it was at the bottom of the enormous urn? He will just have to turn it over, and hope for the best.  
  
Drake sets his walking stick aside, on the floor. Carefully, one hand on either side of the huge vase, he feels, up, up, until it seems he has hit the center of its mass. He lifts, tips, tips--  
  
"Dangit!" he exclaims as he feels it slip suddenly from his grasp, and doesn't even hear himself as the pieces make a shower of musical shatterings. He lets out an half-irritated sigh and squats down, his back to the blinding sun which streams in from the wall-length windows on the eastern side. He squints, trying to make out something, anything, in the darkness of his own shadow. He thinks he sees a corner of an envelope and reaches out, only to draw his hand back with a muted gasp, sucking on the tip of his bleeding finger.  
  
"Oh my," says a quiet, wavery old voice from behind him. "I might have assisted you, sir--"  
  
Fully accustomed by now to the fact that he will not, in fact, see anything if he turns his head towards the voice, Drake does not look up at the old man, but only continues to attempt to see what was in his own shadow. "Is it there, Alfred?" he asks.  
  
"If I may, sir--" there is a musical shuffling as he steps forward into the porcelain, and then Drake feels gentle, brittle old fingers at his elbow.   
  
He stands and accepts the envelope that is put into his hands. The paper is dry now, and crackles in his hands. "Thanks, Alfred," he says.  
  
The old man hesitates. "Would you like me to read it for you, sir?" he asks, finally.  
  
"What--" Drake stops. "Agh, stupid kid," he mutters again.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Nothing, Alfred. Thanks, but not yet." Carefully, he slides his feet through the broken china and steps past Alfred. "Look, just leave the mess, okay? I'll clean it up when I get back."  
  
"Sir--?"  
  
Drake turns around. "Yeah?"  
  
"Master Bruce was of the opinion that you were going to sleep a while--"  
  
He shakes his head. "I don't think I can sleep right now. Tell Bruce I'll meet him at the office later; I'll pick up brunch at G-G's."  
  
He meets the taxi at the bottom of the hill, giving him brief directions before they're off and hoping that he' remembered it right. In the back of the cab he sits back, drawing the now-ancient letter out of his inside jacket pocket. For a moment he holds it, then runs a finger along the edge and slips it into the small opening at the top flap. He rips the envelope open in one short gesture, and feels the thin binder paper slide out into his hand. Again, he shakes his head in disgust.  
  
How stupid could he have been? Writing a personal letter to a blind man. And although he can remember nothing else, he does, indeed, know that it was personal, somehow. He can remember everything-- the conversation with his father before going into his room to write it, afterwards running through the snow to deliver it to Alfred's safekeeping-- but for the life of him, he cannot remember what is in the letter. "I guess the hypnosis thing really does work," he mutters quietly.   
  
He was still a stupid kid.  
  
"We're here, sir," announces the cabbie.  
  
Drake reaches into the pocket that holds twenties and gives the driver two. "Thanks," he says. "Which side of the street?" The man has dealt with Drake before, and explains briefly where they are in relation to the restaurant. "Thanks," Drake says again, and steps out.  
  
Immediately, the clamor of the city greets him. It is a busy street, and typically he would not have come here alone in broad daylight. But he wants to be by himself. The best conversations with G-G always come when he is by himself. He unfolds his stick quickly and starts down the street to the crosswalk, receiving a rough knock and a brief, angry "Watchit, buddy!" from some idiot who is apparently blinder than Drake himself.   
  
He crosses with the little chirping noise, tripping over the curb on the other side, but makes it safely to the door of the restaurant. He passed the point of being frustrated and angry about three years ago. Now he doesn't react, really; he just deals with it.   
  
Inside, it is warm, the atmosphere, as always, inviting. He takes a deep breath of what Bruce describes to him as early nineteenth century furniture and decor; to Drake, by smell, leather and mahogany. His imagination fills in the rest. He stands in the entryway, waiting, until the maitre'd notices him.  
  
"Ah, Mister Drake!" booms a full, hearty voice at last. A heavy hand falls upon his shoulder. "Come, your table is always ready."  
  
"Thank you, Papa," he says, for it was what everyone calls the Santa-like old man. Suddenly, for entirely no reason at all, he wants to hug the big-hearted man, just throw his arms around him and not let go for a long while. But he doesn't. He allows himself be guided to the table, feeling his way into one side of the large booth.   
  
"What today, my friend?" Papa asks, for to Timothy Drake, the menu is always open.   
  
"Brunch," he returns, simply. "Surprise me."  
  
"Ah, very good choice, very good choice," Papa laughs. "I will see what we can cook up. For now-- a glass of water? Too early for wine?"  
  
"Yes, just water, thank you."  
  
"You want me to tell G-G you are here, yes?" Papa laughs and winks. "Eh?"  
  
Drake pauses. "I--" he says, suddenly uncertain.  
  
Papa pats his shoulder. "I will tell her you have arrived. She deserves a break. She works too hard, yes?"  
  
"Yes," murmurs Drake, but Papa has already gone. He realizes, suddenly, as he sits back, that he is still holding the letter. Quickly, he slides it back into his pocket, away.   
  
Papa brings his water, setting it with a helpful *clunk* upon the table top, and departs again to attend his other patrons, leaving Drake alone with his thoughts. They slide quickly into the past.   
  
He doesn't regret, exactly, what he has done. Really, it is more as though he sees that there was no other option, no other possible choice. He is not bitter, and he knows he has done the right thing in telling his younger self what is to come. All in all, he is satisfied with himself. No regrets, no painful might-have-beens. Really, it was the only way.  
  
And yet here he sits, in the dark.   
  
It always comes back to that single, frustrating point. How is it that he can have done everything right, performed exactly to the standards, and yet still be here, at this point? His eyes, no longer his own, replaced with cold mechanical orbs that would send the first woman he looked at screaming through the roof, were he not wearing the dark, skin-hugging glasses? And then, of course, his face. He hasn't seen it, and never will, thank God for that, but he can feel it, under his fingers, the scarred ripples from the fire that course like stiff waves across his cheeks and forehead. It was up there, of course, so even with the mutilations he will not be identified as Batman.   
  
Fate always works in Batman's favor.   
  
Always.  
  
Which is one of the reasons he knows that he cannot give it up. Ever. It is a superstitious reason, but added to the rest, no more ridiculous than most. But he doesn't mind. Not now, anyway. Since the accident, Batman has given him something that he cannot find anywhere else: hope, a reason for living. He knows, from his four-year absence, that Gotham needs Batman. And there is no one else who can be Batman. No one.   
  
In a world where his entrance into a room prompts immediate silence, and what he knows are curious stares-- he is blind, but he can feel them-- when people fear to get close to him, and he likewise is forced to distance himself from others, that sensation, the knowledge of being needed, of his very grave importance to the well-being of the world, is important to him. Sometimes, it is what keeps him alive.  
  
"Well, aren't *we* looking rather thoughtful today!"  
  
Drake smiles faintly as G-G throws herself into the bench across from him in the booth. "I suppose I am," he admits.  
  
A plate plinks down in front of him. "Southwestern omelette, eleven to two. Six to eleven, fried red potatoes, catsup already on."  
  
"What about six to two?"  
  
"Well, it was *going* to be a surprise, but if you have to know, Papa's best sausages."  
  
Drake grins, and, feeling his skin go tight, immediately erases the expression.  
  
"Oh, I wish you'd go on," cajoles G-G.  
  
"Go on and what--?" he asks softly, sampling the omelette.   
  
"*Smile,* Tim! You always act like you're afraid to."  
  
Drake flushes slightly and concentrates on his food, his still-longish hair falling down over his eyes. G-G doesn't know it, but she's hit the nail exactly upon the head. He would smile at G-G, all the time, constantly, yes-- but he is afraid it would do more harm than good. He is afraid of-- scaring her. He doesn't have to have eyes to sense the horror of others when he does it. Never with G-G, of course, but-- others, yes.  
  
Tactful as ever, G-G switches the conversation quickly. "Tim, I went to the most spectacular gala last night, you'd never believe it."  
  
"Tell me," he says, feeling the desire leap out of him as if it were a separate entity in and of itself. "With color." G-G sits forward eagerly, lowering her voice as she speaks, so that her words are for him and him alone. She always makes him feel that way. Behind his glasses, Drake closes his eyes; it makes no difference, but the mental transition is made, so that his attention is focused solely on the words pouring, low and sweet, from her mouth. She narrates excitedly, describing every detail in depth; the shimmering of the colored lights upon the gauze drapings hung from the ceiling, the ethereal opaqueness of the balloons drifting down from above, the dancers, flitting here and there like glittering jewels in the darkened room. He can see it in his mind down to the last detail, can see her, in her dress, next to him, warm and alive, feeling his hand slipping into hers as they enter the ballroom, her arms creeping about his neck--  
  
"--and he was an absolute hunk," G-G is saying suddenly, "but let me tell you what, not an ounce of intelligence anywhere in that kettle-drum of a head of his."  
  
Drake blinks and flushes, suddenly aware that he has neglected his meal entirely.   
  
"Tim, are you okay?" she asks, concerned.   
  
"I'm-- fine," he says. "It sounds like a wonderful party."  
  
"Oh, it was," she breathes, slipping quickly back into the moment. "Except for the date, of course. Don't think I'll be going with *him* again. Evie says she can set me up with Tom Voyage, you know, the actor, next time."  
  
Drake raises an eyebrow. "And you think he'll be any better?"  
  
G-G laughs. "Good point. But a girl's gotta have a date, and at least I can say afterwards I went out with Tom Voyage, can't I? Bragging rights!"  
  
He has to smile at this.  
  
But G-G slides out of the booth. "Whoops, gotta go catch something before the place erupts in flames. Be right back-- and I saw that smile, Timothy."  
  
When she is gone, he lets the grin work its way over his entire face, hunching slightly over his meal to give himself a little privacy. This is what he loves about her-- somehow, she always makes him smile, whether he wants to or not. She makes his heart leap inside, makes his blood race in a way that it does not when a mass murderer pulls a gun on him in the middle of the night. There are some times when he thinks he would not survive, if it were not for lunches at G-G's place.  
  
And it is made all the more unique, more special and sacred-- because he has never seen her face. He has an image of her, in his mind, something that he holds very private and secret, that appears on lonely nights, and every time he talks with her.   
  
She is average size, not small, not overweight; this much he knows by the way she tosses herself into the booth, with reckless abandon. She is solid, and real. But he does not know what color her hair is-- red, he thinks-- not her eyes, or what she wears on a day to day basis. The one time she asked, hesitantly, if he wanted to feel her face, he respectfully declined.  
  
He is afraid, almost, that if he did-- it would not be her. That it would not be the G-G he knew, has formed inside of his head, has come to adore so very much in the year and a half since his return to Gotham. That he will find her strange, different, and that the G-G he knows will suddenly dissipate into nothingness, and, like everything else, be gone, sucked into the dark abyss that is his reality.  
  
And like all men throughout history, he is afraid of coming closer for fear of being pushed away.  
  
It's not only that, of course; he knows that he is G-G's friend. This is certain. But he feels that he can never be more to her than this. She likes him because he *is* a friend-- like her dates, he is a curiosity, and has been classed in his own particular category, just as the bodybuilders and actors are in theirs, of midnight hours and grand charades. Like but unlike them, he is the solitary blind man, the socially crippled billionaire who needs to be able to share his table with someone now and then, to feel that he is not entirely alone. His is the name that rolls off her tongue, he is sure, in the presence of other friends, as he hears their names in turn, to shock and amuse them by her incredible nonchalance about the whole thing. "He really is an all-right guy," he can hear her tell them; "friendly, not a scrooge at all."  
  
But nothing more.  
  
"Well, that's settled," G-G sighs, sounding slightly burnt out even at this early hour as she throws herself back into the booth. "Well, we've talked about my night-- what did you do this past evening, that you were so thoughtful about when you came in?" she asks, coming quickly to the point she has been circling about all morning.   
  
"Not much," he grossly underexaggerates, neglecting of course to mention his near death grapple with Tycho. "Just-- revisiting the past, I guess."  
  
"Well, everyone's gotta do it, now and then," she reasons. "Any specific event?"  
  
"Yeah, my-- teenage years."  
  
G-G lets out a good-natured moan. "I take it back; I'd rather not revisit *my* teenage years.   
  
They laugh, and he smiles, feeling that her attention is not focused fully on him, although-- it is.  
  
Her laughter dies gently, musically, and he lets his eyes close for a moment again. Then he is startled, almost so startled that he pulls away, when she puts her hand gently on top of his. But he only jerks slightly, and remains, for he is not afraid of her hands. Many times, she has touched him, always her fingers soft and cool, taking him back somehow to bittersweet childhood memories. To Suzie.  
  
He takes her hand in his, lightly. "Your hands--" he says, haltingly.  
  
"Yes?" her voice is eager, anticipating.  
  
"They always remind me-- of a girl I loved, when I was a boy. She-- was killed, as a child, but when I hold your hand, I think of how she might have been, had she grown into a woman."  
  
"Oh, Tim," she says softly, "I'm sorry. I wish--"  
  
"What?" He is almost afraid to ask.  
  
She pauses. "--I wish I could see your eyes, when you laugh."  
  
He pulls away from her grasp, bluntly, and touches the rim of his glasses, ensuring that they are, in fact, still securely in place. "No," he says flatly, "you don't."  
  
"I've seen pictures before. They were beautiful."  
  
"Whatever they were, they aren't anymore."  
  
"It's such a shame. I'm sorry."  
  
There is silence for a moment, and Drake finds himself suddenly and uncomfortably hot. He sits forward and slips out of his jacket, stuffing it beside him in the booth without bothering to fold it.   
  
"Oh-- you dropped something; here," she says, and when Drake holds out his hand he feels the letter slide into it. He starts to tuck it back into his jacket. "What is it?" she asks.  
  
"A-- letter. From someone I knew long ago." He smiles faintly. "I don't think it occurred to them that-- well, I can't see."  
  
G-G lets out a soft, gentle chuckle. "Well, it is fairly easy to forget. Do you want me to read it to you?"  
  
Drake considers this for a moment. Ten years ago, he hadn't known about G-G, couldn't possibly have anticipated, so it would obviously contain nothing regarding her. Although it might refer to Batman-- "I would-- appreciate it," he says, handing it back. "It is from a child, so it's likely to be a bit fanciful--"  
  
G-G smiles. Drake doesn't know how, but he can sense it. "All right," she says, taking it back from him. "I'll keep that in mind." He hears a soft rustle as she unfolds the aged binder paper. "'Dear Mr. Drake' --ah, a formal child, I see."  
  
One corner of his mouth tugs upward. "Just read it," he prompts, suddenly impatient as a boy.  
  
"All right, all right. Reading, sir." She clears her throat dramatically. "'Dear Mr. Drake-- This is weird. I'm not exactly sure how to begin. Anyway, obviously I know that you won't be able to read this letter. You are probably thinking that if I was smart I would have just made a tape recording or something, but I am not as dumb as you think. I am writing this on a piece of paper so if you want to read it, you will have to get close enough to someone else to have them read it *to* you.'" G-G pauses, a little taken aback.  
  
Drake clears his throat, stiffening slightly, but says nothing, and so she reads on.  
  
"'Anyway, why I am writing this: for your own benefit. Because if you even mentioned that there was a girl, I know it means that you are so in love with her that you can barely speak when she comes around. So I just want to say that if there is any possible chance for *anything,* you are a damn lunatic if you don't take it--'" G-G is speeding up as she reads, her words pouring out from the page faster and faster and faster, as though she knows that she'll never get through the whole thing, and is trying suddenly to get as far as she can before--  
  
With a grunt, Drake makes a swipe across the table, tearing the letter from her hands.   
  
She watches him with large eyes as he rises, folding his jacket brusquely across his arm and gripping his walking stick so tightly his knuckles are white. He stuffs the crumpled letter into a pocket. "Excuse me," he says roughly, turning away from her. "I-- just remembered I have to be somewhere. Charge-- charge the bill to my account."  
  
She watches him as he stumbles back through the dining room to the door, his balance surprisingly good as he trips over chairs and tables, guided only by the swiftly dissipating conversations around him and a helpful hand or two. Outside, Drake goes to the corner, fumbles with his jacket a moment, and pulls out a cell phone. He calls a taxi.  
  
***  
  
Night falls on Gotham City and Wayne Manor alike; tonight, the moon finds about a small table in the grand old mansion, in the center of a room entirely too large for its inhabitants, three grown men, quietly dining together. The conversation is sparse, and one member fumbles awkwardly with his food, providing some small release as his two companions offer helpful hints from time to time. They are all bachelors.  
  
Once, during the meal, the fumbler reaches for his glass, and tips it over, spilling carbonated liquid across the polished surface of the table. The oldest member exclaims quietly and hurries away, returning momentarily with a sponge and a rag. The mess is easily cleaned up.  
  
"I'm sorry," Drake apologizes. "I wasn't watching carefully--"  
  
"Take off the glasses," rumbles the third member of the party, who is speaking for the first time that night.  
  
"Dad--" Drake starts to object.  
  
"Neither of us care; the lights are low enough I know you'll do better without them. Take them off," he insists.  
  
Slowly, Drake removes his glasses, folding them and slipping them into a pocket.   
  
Dinner is finished in silence, but nothing else is spilled.  
  
When the plates are clean, Alfred stands and begins to clear them away, his brittle old fingers working nimbly to consolidate silverware and glasses. After a moment he disappears into the kitchen. Drake stands, and Bruce follows, a little more slowly. After his second heart attack, he is more cautious. Together, they leave Alfred and go into the hall.   
  
"You should get some sleep before you go out tonight," Bruce says.  
  
Drake shrugs. "I'll be all right. I've done it before."  
  
"An hour. You'll be refreshed."  
  
He considers. "All right. An hour."  
  
"I'll call Allen."  
  
"Thanks." Drake pauses, then seems to be suddenly resolute. "Dad?"  
  
"Yes, Tim."  
  
Drake reaches for the voice, and puts his arms about the old man, squeezing as tightly as he dares. "Let's not be any lonelier than we have to be, okay, Dad? --We always have each other."  
  
Bruce thumps his back manfully. "All right, son, all right." He hesitates. "I... didn't want it to be this way, for you," he says, finally.  
  
Drake pulls back, and slips his glasses back on. "I know," he says. "But it's okay." He turns. "I'm gonna get some sleep."  
  
***  
  
In his room, Drake removes his glasses again, setting them down on the small stand by the door. It is eternally evening in his own quarters, the windows sealed from outside light; the lamps inside turned exactly low enough just to emit a faint glow, the perfect balance between light and dark-- so when the glasses are off, he can see. Objects are still just shapes, without detail or much depth, but in this half-light he can identify a face, mark the distinguishing features and see as the lips move, the eyes open and close.   
  
Here, in his private sanctum, he loosens his tie, removes his jacket, and unbuttons the top of his shirt so his chest shows down to the collarbone. He steps out of his shoes, bending to store them safely in the closet, and hangs his jacket up just above, on the hangar that he has identified by touch to be the one reserved for "blacks;" in the dim light, colors cease to be readily identifiable.   
  
For a moment he considers slipping out of his pants before getting into bed, but decides via the bachelor's code of reasoning that he might as well leave them on, since he's going to have to put them on again anyway to travel the short distance between Wayne Manor and headquarters. So he pulls back the covers, carefully tucked and folded by Alfred's meticulous hands, and slides in beneath the cool sheets. As he does, he hears and feels a soft crunch, and reaches into his pocket to pull out the now entirely crushed letter. For a moment he glances to the trash can in the corner, considering balling it up and tossing it, then pauses and smoothes it out over one knee, propping himself up over a pillow on one elbow. He holds the paper up to the dim lights, turning and angling it to get the best view. But it's no use; he's tried it a hundred times before if once, and he simply cannot see it.   
  
There is a soft knock upon his door. "It's me," a soft voice whispers.  
  
He is slightly surprised. "Come in," he says, amiably, and watches as the air in front of him goes hazy, coalescing a moment later into a childlike form that he knows very well. She stands beside his bed, her small, girlish features accentuated in the dark. "Hello, Suzie" he says.  
  
She smiles, revealing small white teeth. "I came for a visit, Tim."  
  
He puts out a hand, and she concentrates for a moment so that he can feel her hair slip, silky and smooth, through his fingers. "Get tired of Kon for the night?" he asks. He thinks of her as his little Peter Pan. And he would allow nothing in the world to hurt her.  
  
She rolls her eyes. "Who wouldn't, now and then?" She smiles again and brushes his arm tenderly. "Did you have a good day?"  
  
"I--" he smiles, hesitantly, apologetic. "Honestly, no."  
  
Her wispy hands go to his face, cool and refreshing as a splash of ice water, and her form follows, reconstituting to sit weightlessly upon his lap. "I'm sorry, Tim. Why?"  
  
He holds the letter up, drawing it through her smoky, half-formed legs to present it. "Do you remember this? I wrote it a very long time ago."  
  
She examines it a moment as he holds it in the air, looking at it from all sides. "It is-- the letter?" she asks. "The one you forgot?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"I remember. What does it say?"  
  
"I don't know. At least-- I've only heard part of it."  
  
Secret looks at him, trying to judge his face, the meaning in his cold, mechanical eyes which glow faintly, eerily, red. "Do you want me to read it to you?" she asks, finally.  
  
For a moment he is silent. "Yes," he says finally. "I think so."  
  
She whisks to the table by the door, and returns with his glasses. "Here," she says, helping him slip them on, "I have to turn up the light."  
  
Again she crosses the room, and in a moment Drake's world is nonexistent. "Where are you?" he asks, suddenly, irrationally concerned.  
  
At his side, he senses a cool draft of air. "Right here, Tim," she says, from beside him on the bed. He turns his head to face her. "All right-- 'Dear Mr. Drake--'"  
  
At first, it is painful to hear the words already spoken, for it is not Secret's voice that he hears, but G-G's, and in the dark he is easily transported back to the restaurant, sitting across from her as she reads, his insides suddenly spilled out before her. But somehow Secret senses his discomfort, and rests an icy hand upon his arm, anchoring him in the present. He listens to the words again, trying not to be angry at his younger, more ignorant self.   
  
"'...you are a damn lunatic if you don't take it, crazier than Bruce. If there's anything, anything I know at all, it's that loneliness is the pits, and if there's anything that can bring a little light into your world, why not go for it? What have you got to lose, really? You see what it's done to Bruce, how it's made him so alone. Isn't it worth it, to know at least you tried? For my sake, whatever is left of me inside of you-- please, please do it. That's-- all I wanted to say. Please, Mr. Drake. --Tim.'"  
  
Delicately, Secret hands back the letter. Drake accepts it, pulling off his glasses as she turns the lights back down, and stares at the paper for a long while.  
  
"He's-- you're right, you know," she says softly.  
  
Drake licks his lips and places the paper on the stand beside his bed. "I'm not-- that lonely," he says. "I have you, and Bart, and Bruce--"  
  
"Oh, Tim," she sighs. "You wouldn't be so afraid of losing her, if you weren't."  
  
And Drake is silent, because he knows she is right. Quickly, very quickly, he is slipping off the edge of that abyss, into solitude and despair. He is not yet entirely there-- but it is not far away.  
  
Then the alarm goes off. He stops it and gets out of bed.  
  
"What's that for?" Secret asks.  
  
He steps to the closet and feels for his shoes. "Time for my night job."  
  
***  
  
"Did you get it done?"  
  
Batman pauses. "Get what done?"   
  
"Yesterday morning you said you remembered something. Did you take care of it?"  
  
He closes his eyes and removes the cowl. "Almost," he says, slipping the glasses on.  
  
Allen turns, fully dressed, and watches as Drake sits down to change. "Look, Tim," he reasons, "Carol's planning on making a casserole tomorrow and I'll pull out the barbecue. Why don't you and Bruce and Alfred come over for dinner? The kids ask about you all the time."  
  
Drake secures the knot in his tie. "All right," he says. "--We'll see."  
  
Allen thumps him lightly on the back. "And-- if there's ever anything-- you know you can--"  
  
"Yeah. I know."  
  
"All right. Just making sure. You know, I think I still owe you guys like thirty times over for being such a pain in the ass as a kid."  
  
Drake grins tightly as he unfolds his cane. "The count is fifty-two, Allen," he says, and is gone.  
  
Allen looks after him. Then he grins and laughs.  
  
***  
  
Papa is the first to spot him, standing outside on the sidewalk. He nearly goes out and greets the younger man, intending to cajole him into coming in for something to eat, but then thinks suddenly better of it. Instead, he finds G-G, who is never too busy for Mr. Drake. She stands in the front window next to Papa, looking out at him. He faces west along the sidewalk, as though waiting for something.   
  
G-G turns to the old man. "Should I go out, Papa? I think I should go out."  
  
"Yes," laughs Papa as she strides past him without waiting for a reply. "Yes, go, my darling."  
  
Out on the sidewalk, G-G pauses, waiting as a group of tourists filter through and there is a break in the flow of pedestrian traffic. Then she steps quickly to the middle of the wide sidewalk, approaching Drake from behind. She puts her hand upon his shoulder at the same moment she says, "Tim," so as not to startle him.  
  
He jerks slightly, but faces her. "G-G," he says.  
  
"Do you-- want to come inside?"  
  
Strangely, although obscured by the darkened lenses of his glasses, he seems to glance furtively towards the restaurant. "No," he says quietly, after a moment. "--No, I don't think so."  
  
She touches his arm. "Tim-- Timothy, are you all right? You left so quickly yesterday, I hope I didn't--"  
  
He gropes suddenly for her hand, gripping it tightly when she grants it to him. "G-G, I--"  
  
He is so afraid.  
  
"Go on, Tim," she says, quietly.  
  
He turns his face downward, to the sidewalk. "I--" he stops, gathers himself, and then speaks in a rush. "G-G, a friend of mine is having me over tomorrow night for dinner. Do you want to come?"  
  
There is silence. And then, G-G laughs.  
  
Drake pulls his hand away as if burned, and feels himself flush deeply. Stupid letter, stupid kid. Stupid, ignorant, foolish child--  
  
But then he feels her hand in his, slipping into his palm. "Of course I will," she's saying, still laughing.  
  
"You-- will?" he asks.  
  
She leads him across the sidewalk, indoors, and to the back room of the restaurant, grinning and winking at Papa as they pass, shushing him with her free hand and a scathing look when he begins to erupt with laughter. She shuts the door on everything. "Of course I will," she says again, brushing his cheek only briefly, experimentally, as he shies away from her touch. "You made me wait long enough, though, didn't you?" she asked, grinning. "Made me work for it, eh?"  
  
Drake's world, though dark, is suddenly spinning. "I--" he murmurs. "I what?"  
  
G-G guides him gently, with soft mother's hands, into a chair. Then she slides up onto the table in front of him. "I was beginning to think I was imagining things, Drake."  
  
He is stunned, too stunned for thought. "Imagining... what?" he whispers.  
  
"That you were interested. You-- *are* interested, aren't you?"  
  
Drake swallows thickly. "Yes," he says, faintly, and then, clearing his throat, "Yeah, I-- I'm interested."  
  
"Good, because so am I."  
  
He swallows again, regaining his composure slowly but surely. And it has to be said. "Not like-- them," he barely gets out. "Not like--"  
  
She brushes his face again, and this time he doesn't flinch quite as much. "Of course not like them. Do you think I give a damn about any of those playboys? Cute, but no brains at all, which you would know if you had been listening to me at all for the past eighteen months."  
  
"I-- I have," Drake insists, immediately.  
  
"Well, good," she praises with a mischievous grin, "now you can see about putting it all together."  
  
Drake finally gets in a good breath, then lets it out in what is still a rather shocked gasp of air. "Is-- is this really happening?" he asks.  
  
G-G laughs. "What time do I need to be ready tomorrow?" she asks.  
  
***  
  
There is a short knock at the door of his room. Bruce Wayne looks up from a pile of computer readouts, removes his glasses, and clears his throat. "Come in," he says, and observes coolly as the door swings slowly open, and Timothy Drake slips in. He puts his glasses back on and pretends to be focused on his paperwork. "What are you still doing here?" he asks, absently.  
  
Drake swallows and tugs at the bottom of his suit jacket. "Dad," he says, his voice dry, nervous, "do I-- look all right?"  
  
Bruce pauses. Then, slowly, he sets the paper down and stands. He steps around the desk and halts in front of the boy who very nearly sacrificed everything for him. He hesitates once more, then puts his hands out and grips Drake by the shoulders. "You look fine, son," he says, his rough voice certain, unshakeable. "You look just fine."  
  
Timothy Drake no longer has the ability to cry, but his voice wavers all the same. "Thanks, Dad. Are you-- are you sure you won't come?"  
  
"Nonsense. I have work to do, anyway." He pats the younger man roughly on the back. "Go on, or you'll be late." He watches, then, as the boy feels his way uncertainly from the room, a lump of sadness forming in his throat that does not disappear entirely when he forces himself to swallow. "Good luck, son," he murmurs, underneath his breath. "All the luck in the world."  
  
***  
  
Alfred pulls the limousine to a stop outside the up-scale apartment complex. He peers out the front window, dubiously, and turns when the center divide rolls down. "There are stairs and a busy lobby, sir. Shall I assist you?"  
  
Drake leans forward, his elbows on the back of the seat, as though he likewise is ducking down to look out the windshield. "No," he says, after a moment. "I think-- I think she's looking." His head pulls back, and a moment later Alfred hears the door open, and his master steps out onto the sidewalk. He goes to the base of the flight of stone stairs, and waits, poised neatly with his hands on top of one another, resting on the walking stick.   
  
He is right; a moment later a rather plain woman in a simple black dress and heels trips lightly down the steps to meet him. Then she smiles, and Alfred sees that there is nothing plain about her at all. She ducks into the car before Drake, then leans over to shut the door after him when he slides in beside her.   
  
"Good evening, Madame," Alfred greets properly. "Directly to the Allen residence, sir?"  
  
"Yes, Alfred. Thanks." Drake pauses, waiting as he hears the slight whine which means the window is going up between them, granting them both privacy. When it stops, he waits yet another moment, not entirely certain. "I--" he starts, "--I rather doubt this will be anything like what you're used to."  
  
"*You're* not like anything I'm used to," she counters. "--And that's a good thing."  
  
***  
  
Allen's house is nothing if not typical. He lives, at the specific request of his wife, in suburbia. He owns two cars and a single-car garage-- but has three children, because he needs to be slightly above average in at least one thing. If it happens to be in children, his wife doesn't mind. She is in the kitchen at the moment, so he answers the door, and grins. Drake called ahead to say he would be bringing the woman, if it was all right, but Allen still can't quite believe his friend finally worked up the guts to do it. They have certainly all been rooting for him, although they never could quite figure out who the "mystery woman" was.  
  
"Come in, come in!" he says, grabbing Drake by the arm and hauling him inside. He takes his friend's jacket, though not the cane; with three kids around, it is wiser to be cautious than not. He opens the hall closet, and takes the woman's as well.   
  
G-G rests her hands lightly about Drake's arm, simply so he will know where she is. He gestures to her, and then vaguely to Allen, although by this time he's moved across the room to pick a little one off the floor. "This is Bart Allen," he says, by way of introduction. "Allen, G-G."  
  
"Delighted to meet you, Ms.-- ah--"  
  
"Lamott. But please, just G-G."  
  
"Of course-- I'm sorry, but I just have to change this diaper--" he winced apologetically. "If you want to follow--" holding the infant out at arm's length, he gestured awkwardly to a back room.   
  
G-G laughs and tugs at Drake's arm, guiding him as they follow.   
  
"Bart Allen," G-G repeats, suddenly thoughtful. "It seems like I've heard that name before..."  
  
Allen, letting the little one down on a changing table, gestures with one hand before reaching over to pull out a diaper. "You probably have. I'm related to Barry Allen, the Flash. As a kid, I was known as Impulse--"  
  
"Ah, yes!"  
  
He glances over one shoulder with an apologetic smile. "Ah-- unfortunately, I was never that great at preserving the whole 'secret identity' thing."  
  
"And here Timothy was trying to convince me how boring you all were."  
  
Drake looks suddenly stricken, but Allen laughs and is glad to see her elbow him playfully. "That's all right," he says, wrapping up the last of the diaper change and raising his voice over the squalling of his little one, "we're used to Timmy's gloom-and-doom around here. We all know he takes after the old man; not *entirely* his fault."  
  
"Since that is now established, could we acknowledge the fact that 'Timmy' is actually standing in the room?" Drake asks, laying the sarcasm on thickly.   
  
Allen hoists his son onto one hip and drags his best friend along with him as he exits the small bedroom. In a chain, they snake into the living room, where Allen plants a firm hand on Drake's chest and pushes, landing him neatly on one end of the couch. "That, my friend, is a good place for you," he says, and his hand blurs, coming away a moment later with Drake's walking stick. "Anything to drink? G-G, come into the kitchen and meet my wife, Carol." He waves away her unspoken protest. "Timothy will be fine, you can pay attention to him later. Carol and he never quite 'clicked,' so we try to keep them apart at family gatherings. You can understand, we don't like to have brawling in front of the children..."  
  
Alone on the couch, Timothy Drake listens, his sharp ears making out every word with ease, as Allen tugs and teases G-G into their family. And slowly, he smiles.  
  
"Mistuh Dwake? Mistuh Dwake?"  
  
For a moment the smile is gone, and then it returns, faintly. "Who is that?" he asks, although he knows perfectly well who it is. His hands fumble sightlessly in front of him, back and forth, although he is aware of her presence, and takes care not to accidentally knock her head of golden hair. "Who is it?" he asks again, feigning confusion. "Where are you?" He braces himself, yet still lets out an unintentional "oof" when she leaps into his lap, bigger and lovelier than ever, he is certain.   
  
"I'n wite he-uh, Mistuh Dwake!" she cries, throwing her arms about his neck.  
  
Drake closes his eyes, and hugs her tightly.  
  
"Jenni," her mother calls from the kitchen, "bring Mr. Drake in here; it's time to eat!"  
  
Jenni squirms in his arms, and, reluctantly, he lets her go. But not entirely; she slips her hand into his, and pulls him up eagerly, exhorting him all the while to "Come, come!"  
  
"I think I will," he says, quietly, and follows after.  
  
***  
  
It must be close to midnight when Alfred pulls up in the limousine; Drake's guess is confirmed when, upon parting, Allen leans over and whispers, "No patrol tonight" into his ear. As they get into the back of the car, he hears G-G yawn. "I hope I haven't kept you out too late," he says; these are merely his normal hours.  
  
But G-G laughs softly, and, amazingly, he feels her arms slip around his. "I thought you knew I was a party animal," she teases.  
  
"Oh," he says, belatedly. "That's right."  
  
"But you're right; I am a bit tired." She yawns again, stretching, and sighs a little as she settles back down. Drake stiffens slightly when her head comes to rest upon his shoulder. "Sometimes I wish I had a family like that," she admits wistfully. "That I was already settled down, a ton of kids-- you know."  
  
"I-- guess," Drake says, hesitantly. He never really thought about it before, actually, except to reach the conclusion that he would never have any of it.   
  
She shifts, slightly, and he has the feeling that she is looking up, at his face. "Do you know why," she asks, after a moment, "Allen quit being Impulse? Was it his family?"   
  
"Athsma," Drake says. "He has athsma."  
  
"Oh." There is a short, gentle jerk. "Oh," she repeats, "we're at my place. Do you want to come up and--" she stops, biting her lip.  
  
"--And see your apartment?" he finishes. "--Figuratively, of course?"  
  
In the moonlight she can see the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yes," she agrees, laughing. "Figuratively."  
  
But he hesitates, doubtful. "I don't know if I should--"  
  
"Oh, come on," she urges, her voice a cajoling whisper. "Just for a minute. Alfred won't fall asleep, will he?"  
  
That coaxes another very small smile from Drake. "He might. But he's used to it."  
  
"Come on." She opens the door, tugging on his arm as he follows her, and the darkened street is silent as they emerge, still except for the brief *whump* as the limousine door slams shut. On the sidewalk, they slow, and G-G pauses a moment as Drake unfolds his cane. She tilts her face up, feeling a faint mist of what might be, by morning, a drizzling rain. Light shimmers underneath the lamp posts. "It's a beautiful night," she says. "I wish you could see it."  
  
Drake knows he might, at least to a functional extent, if he removed his glasses. But he can't let her see his eyes. "Tell me," he says, quietly.  
  
G-G looks around, halts him for a moment and whispers a quiet warning as they come to the bottom of the flight of stone steps. "Well," she says, glancing about again, "there's a full moon in the sky-- or almost full, anyway. But you can't see it, because of the mist. It's just a ball of glowing light, like a giant, hovering firefly. There's-- drops of water, hanging from the trees, enough to hang but not quite enough to fall, unless you walk underneath a branch, stir the air. Then it all rains down, I'm sure." She glances at him, and sees that although his head is ducked, to avoid the light rain upon his face, he is smiling. She continues, quickly, as they climb the stairs, to talk. "And-- and everything else is wet, too. Just a film, so thin it's like a mirror, everything at just the right angle, reflecting the moonlight and glowing--" she takes his hand, connects it with the railing. "See? Feel it? It's liquid mirror, on the rail, the stairs, the street-- the tops of your shoes and your beautiful black hair." Quickly, she steps forward and opens the door, shivering a little now in the damp. "Now that's enough-- let's get upstairs and get warm before we catch our deaths."  
  
In the elevator, they are silent.  
  
"You-- you know--" Drake begins, hesitantly.  
  
"What?"  
  
He turns his face away. "That was-- better than-- seeing it myself."  
  
G-G swallows the sudden lump in her throat. "Tim--" she says quietly, as they stand shoulder-to-shoulder, facing the elevator doors, "--before--" She stops again. "You have to understand that my restaurant is rated one of the top ten in the country. I don't own it-- it owns *me.*" Her tone is apologetic-- regretful, perhaps, even.  
  
Drake nods, and somewhere in his heart, he is the smallest bit relieved. It means he has to explain nothing; make no excuses, if he must be gone. "I understand," he says. "--I run Wayne Enterprises."  
  
She laughs softly, nervously. "That's right; I'd forgotten."  
  
The elevator stops, and the doors slide open, dinging suggestively. And yet neither one moves. They have stated reality, and yet both feel-- somehow-- guilty.  
  
Drake is the first to broach the silence. "Perhaps," he says quietly, "there will come a point in our lives when we are brave enough to own ourselves."  
  
"Yes," G-G says, her voice strangely thin. "Perhaps." Then she blinks, shakes her head slightly, and comes back to herself. She takes his arm lightly. "Come on," she says, her voice bright again. "My apartment is this way."  
  
He follows her into the hall. Upon entering, he sees nothing, of course, but together they stand just inside the door, and she turns him, from left to right, describing the layout before him. Then follows a short tour of tangible items; a few small statues, a bachelor's degree in business, a doll her mother made for her as a child. "I'm afraid there's nothing remotely 'artsy' about the place," she apologizes. "Just a space for the things I love."  
  
"That's enough," he says, quietly.   
  
"Here's the couch-- to your right. It's a little low, watch out. Anything to drink?"  
  
The low couch is awkward-- it presses him to lean back, to lounge into it, and objects strongly as he attempts to retain a rigid, upright posture. "No," he says, frowning slightly. "No, I-- think I've had enough, tonight."  
  
"All right." She sits down next to him, facing, although he looks out, into the room. On an impulse, she reaches over him and grasps his other hand, turning him towards her. She leans into the couch, and, hesitantly, he also.   
  
G-G is not the kind of girl who wastes time by dallying around the point. She never has been, and being otherwise is what got her where she is now. But when she is blunt, she is also tactful. She is a woman. "Tim," she says, her voice soft, careful, "can I touch your face?"  
  
He swallows thickly, and makes a halfhearted attempt at pulling his hand away. "I-- don't want you to," he whispers.  
  
She smiles faintly. "I think-- we're both a little afraid." She presses her lips together, and then speaks, petting his hand lightly. "You touch my face," she says. "And I'll touch yours."  
  
His attempts to pull away grow stronger, more desperate. "G-G, I-- please--"  
  
G-G grabs his hand, and presses it flat against her own face.  
  
"No--!" he cries, but the objection fades quickly. "Oh--" he says, softly. His fingers move, explore, bluntly, the crevices of her eyes, the curve of her forehead. And then, more gently, her lips. She is there, she is solid, real-- like in his mind, only real, at the end of his fingertips-- real, real, *real!* Vaguely, he is aware that her hands are on his face, but he doesn't care. His fingers feel her lips, soft, slightly parted-- her fingers feel his--  
  
And then they are together, pressed close and warm, so much closer and more alive and *real* than just fingers, hands-- no distance, no anything, and she is soft and warm and smells faintly of strawberries...  
  
"G-G," he murmurs, gasping slightly for air. He wants to cry, so badly, and he can't because it won't come-- "G-G," he says again, hearing his voice break.  
  
Her arms surround him, comforting and warm. "It's all right, Tim," she says. "It's all right."  
  
He sniffs, wipes his nose like a kid. He sits a long while in her embrace, simply-- comforted.   
  
Her hand runs gently through his hair. "Tim," she says, after a long while. "--I want to see your eyes."  
  
Drake swallows, sniffing one last time, and sits up, feeling her arms fall gently away. He looks away from her, and then stands. "Not-- not tonight," he says. "Not-- yet. I'm sorry."  
  
G-G stands, puts a hand reassuringly upon his back. "Okay, Tim," she says. "It's all right."  
  
He fumbles for his stick, finds it, turns for the door. G-G corrects him slightly, and guides him to the hall and then the elevator. "You want me to go with you downstairs?" she asks, as it slides open.  
  
He combs his hair back with his fingers, finding it slightly wet, from the mist outside. "No, I-- I'll be all right," he says. Suddenly, he thinks he'd like to go down alone.  
  
G-G stands on her tiptoes, pulls him down a little, and kisses him lightly. "You have my phone number," she says. "Call me."  
  
He hesitates. "Are you-- sure?"  
  
Her hands go to her hips. "You had darn well *better,*" she says, laughing a little. "I've already got Tom Voyage crossed off my list."  
  
A faint, faint smile flickers across his face. "All right," he says, stepping into the elevator. "I will."  
  
She watches, silently, as the doors close between them. "In fact," she murmurs, before turning to go back to her room, "I've already crossed everyone else off, too."  
  
***  
  
Drake finds his way easily to the front entrance, and it feels good to step out again into the crisp, cool night air. The stairs take him well, and the car is just where he left it. He slides in back and waits, but nothing happens. He fumbles for the divide switch and lowers it, climbing forward to stick his head partially through.  
  
All that greets him is the muted rumble of Alfred's halting snores. 


End file.
